


Reflections

by silbecoo



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 17:41:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11719284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silbecoo/pseuds/silbecoo
Summary: The last thing she wants or needs is someone to scold her for being reckless... She knows it already. She knows and yet there's a part of her that relishes the feeling of her knuckles smashing against another's unyielding bones. It's the bruises afterward that she has trouble with.





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> From this prompt: I'm not sure if you've done one like this before, but could you maybe do a fic where Karen has been trying to avoid Frank because she has a bruise and or cuts due to investigating too far into something and she knows Frank will get angry, however he finally catches up to her? (Your writing has given me lots of late nights by the way I can't get enough)
> 
>  
> 
> **Thanks for the prompt nonny, i now this isn't exactly what you asked for, but it did break my writer's block and for that I am eternally grateful.**

It’s a habit she has, gazing at herself in the mirror before bed, trying to find answers in the shadows under her eyes. The bathroom feels strange after she steps out of the shower. Cocoon-like, warm and close. It feels like a time capsule straight from her childhood. The tile here is different though, pristine and white. She tries to focus on the difference, but it's futile. She can hear her mother crying softly in the echoey bathroom, can see the way she'd gently dabbed at her own cuts and bruises in the soft light. The memory sends anger surging through Karen, and she tries to blink it away, but her reflection doesn't lie. There are unwelcome flashes of her father swimming in the blue depths of her eyes, a hint of violence simmering just below the surface. It’s hard to push it away, to breathe deeply and ignore what’s been taken from her… what she’s taken.

Tonight it’s even harder. Her bathroom smells like antiseptic, and there are blood droplets dotting the ceramic surface of her tiny sink. She swabs the cuts on th side of her cheek. The coppery smell in the air and the sting of alcohol inside her nostrils carry her right back to the pink seashell tiles of her childhood. She can almost here the soft hum of her mother's voice working to ease the fear out of her children. 

Karen's hands tremble with adrenaline running through them as she moves to inspect the scrapes along her hairline. The bright slash of red across her knuckles is a surprise under the harsh light of her bathroom. Her mother's delicate hands had never looked like this, scraped and swollen. But then again, her mother had never fought back. Karen curls her digits back into a fist. The hand looks too delicate to be her own. Perhaps she has some broken bones. She can still hear the way her fist collided with the man’s eye socket over and over, sickening. And she can still feel the pull of concerned samaritans dragging her off the would-be mugger huddled on the sidewalk. What she can’t feel is any pain. She’s numb.

She curses softly at the memory, the sound of it faintly echoing in the small bathroom. There’ll be a bruise down the side of her face in the morning, something she can’t hide with makeup or designer sunglasses. Maybe she can feign illness, stay cooped up in her apartment for the next week or so until the marks fade. She sighs. She was reckless and stupid and she doesn’t need the bevy of overprotective assholes in her life to chime in on her decision to fight back when she could have easily just let the man skitter away with her purse.

Except… she couldn’t have done that. Her gun… Mentally she kicks herself. Unregistered, illegally obtained, it had been in the purse and she wasn’t about to be the reason some kid got his brains blown out after getting in a petty argument. Working the crime beat for Ellison, she’d seen too many sobbing mothers, too many teens intimately acquainted with loss.

She closes her eyes, pushing away the feeling bubbling inside of her. It's an unwelcome wakefulness, false in its intensity. Her heart still flutters in her chest, jumping against her sternum. She knows there's a crash coming, that all this energy will spend itself, and she'll come falling down the abyss with nothing to catch her. With any luck her dreams will be a silent black oblivion. Maybe she'll just stand here staring at her reflection until the chaos inside of her fades away.

A loud rapping noise coming from her bedroom window pulls Karen from her trance. It seems loud anyway. Her senses are turned up, and the noise makes her jump, one hand flailing against the bottle of alcohol sitting on the edge of the bathroom counter. It spills everywhere, impossibly cold liquid splashing against her bare toes. Distracted, she jumps away from the counter. "Fuck!" 

Her visitor is persistent, knocking again. It’s just Frank, she tells herself. No one else comes politely knocking at her window. Although why that should be of any comfort is a mystery.

She ties her robe and darts out of the cocoon of warmth in her bathroom and into her chilly apartment. The change in temperature sends a cascade of goosebumps across her skin. It’s dark, and her eyes haven’t adjusted, but she moves swiftly across the space by memory, reaching the window in a few seconds. Better to meet him in the dark anyway. Perhaps he won’t notice the angry red marks on her skin, or the puffy swelling around her eye.

Involuntarily, she snaps at him as she lifts the sash. “One of these days you’re gonna break the glass, Frank. Slamming your knuckles against the pane like you’re trying to wake up the whole neighborhood.”

He grunts in response, climbing through the window like a boy sneaking into his girlfriend’s bedroom. The thought comes unbidden, and she has to stifle the maniacal urge to laugh. She knows it would sound like a witch’s cackle echoing in her apartment, and she’s not too sure it wouldn’t turn into a pathetic sob. The residual effects of raging-out have her more than a little rattled. Silence is better.

Karen feints away from him before he can get a good look at her, slipping through her dark apartment toward the kitchen, grateful for the shadows. “Coffee?” she asks, already halfway to making a fresh pot.

“Always.”

There is one disadvantage in the dark. Frank is a silent companion, his tread soft when he wants it to be, and Karen doesn’t even notice that he’s standing directly behind her until she pulls her head out of the fridge. She nearly drops the carton in her hand with a squeak, but Frank is quicker, catching the thing before it spills across the kitchen floor.

He pushes the fridge door open wider, watching as the cold blue light illuminates her face. “Karen.” He growls her name, concerned and chiding at the same time.

She ignores him, retrieving the cream and pushing the fridge door shut with her hip as if nothing is wrong. “Do you want your coffee to-go, or are you staying for a bit?”

She knows this game can’t go on much longer, but it’s still a surprise when he flicks on the kitchen light. She squints instinctively, pain shooting across her eye socket. “Shit!” The curse comes out involuntarily.

“What the hell, Page?” His question is soft, barely more than a whisper in the quiet. She can tell he wants to be stern, but the look on his face is pained. “Who did this?”

"I'm fine." A fresh wave of guilt crashes over her. She doesn’t want him to have to deal with this. There are too many other things he needs to be worrying about, and really this has nothing to do with any of them. But he’s closing the space between them, his fingers gently slipping underneath her chin so he can angle her face toward the light. His jaw clenches, brow furrowing. She can see the gears turning in his brain, wondering what piece of shit he’s going to have to kill tonight.

"Who?"

She starts to pull away from him, reaching up to remove his hand. Instead her fingers curl around his wrist, feeling his steady pulse against her skin. “Some punk. He’s in lockup downtown with a broken nose and a fractured orbital socket. He got way more than he bargained for, trust me.”

“A mugger?”

She nods. “He cornered me on the way home, shoved me up against the brick and snarched my purse. I… I couldn’t let it go, Frank. My gun…” She leaves out the part where she couldn’t stop wailing on the man after she had him on the ground, the part where the responding officer looked at her with a wariness akin to fear.

She moves, actually pulling away this time. He holds onto her hand though, inspecting the damage. Her knuckles are purple and swollen, and they’re beginning to feel a little stiff. “Christ, Page, this is gonna hurt like shit tomorrow.”

His reaction isn’t what she expects. He’s not chastising or angry. His calloused hands are gently probing her injuries, and there’s a strange little quirk at the corner of his mouth. Suddenly she’s deflated. The exhaustion she’d been expecting creeps up on her. She sags into him, arms slipping up around his torso in an unexpected hug.

It’s not what they’re used to, some invisible boundary being swept away in a moment of weakness. Karen’s walls are crumbling, and she’s not sure why. His arms slowly circle her, holding her to him. He’s quiet, and they stand like statues in the glowing light of her kitchen.  She mumbles against his shoulder. “Damn it, Frank, say something. It was stupid, and scary. I shouldn’t have chased after him. I know it, but I’m just so fucking tired of people looking at me and thinking they can push me around... I’m so tired.”

He shifts, withdrawing his embrace, scooping her up before she can protest. It’s a bridal carry, and she feels the damn hysteria from before, this time muted in the back of her mind. She wants to protest but God he’s warm, and she’s so tired and sore. For the first time since the mugging she feels unquestionably safe and herself. “C-can you stay?” Silent is the rest of her plea, the feeling that she might just fly apart if she’s left to her own devices tonight.

He lays her down on the bed, slipping beside her on top of the coverlet, boots and all. “Page, your face… and hands… that’s all the damage, right?”

She thinks there might be a faintly purple bruise just under her left ribs if the twinging when she breathes is any indication, but she knows that’s not what he’s talking about. “That’s all.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

"Go to sleep." He sighs, pulling her closer to him so she can settle back against his chest. She begins to drift, her breathing syncing with his slower rhythm, warmth seeping into her limbs. Just as she’s floating away, her dreams soft and blue, she hears him quietly, almost to himself, his arms tightening around her. “Prick won’t be safe in lockup for long.”

The next morning, Karen wakes to the smell of bacon frying in her kitchen, Frank's back to her as he tends the stove. Quietly, she tiptoes into the bathroom, afraid of the mess that awaits her. The tiny space is sparkling clean, not a trace of blood from the night before, all the rubbing alcohol gone and bandages put away.

With a sigh, she looks in the mirror. HEr injuries are obvious, a large purple contusion on the side of her face, scratches still an angry red. She can barely move the fingers of her swollen hand. But in the light of day it feels different. Her eyes are clear and soft, and she can't help the way her lips turn up at the sound of Frank shuffling in her kitchen. She goes out to meet him, proudly sporting her black eye.


End file.
